Good morning, world. I see you are right where I left you, in softly-lit mango-colored dark, sliding windows open just a bit. I forgot to remember the phrase that came to me in the middle of the night when I woke to drink, the one I swore I wouldn’t forget.
Good morning, Grandma, I say lovingly to the kitchen witch who turns slowly in the breeze as my naked feet gauge the weather from the tiles. She is Grandma, wise, patient, turning, toes and nose pointing the way and, believe me, the Way is not an ass in a chair.
Good morning, sun. You’re not where I left you way over there in winter’s cold shoulder: you are a hot globe rising from the sea, rising just for me, and this is where my words crumble and blow away in the breeze.
Good morning, truth. I address you in the mirror as I wipe away last night’s tears with a hot washcloth, hoping my neighbors will never see. Washcloths cool but truth never does, and that is why I grieve.